


Therapy

by gpr



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Disabled Character, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Physical Disability, Physical Therapy, Relationship(s), Survivor Guilt, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-06-03 20:26:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6625015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gpr/pseuds/gpr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He comes to her for physio. It's awkward, and sometimes Abby selfishly wishes she could palm off the regular appointments on Jackson instead, but she knows Marcus will stubbornly beat him down on any recommendations of bed rest, and he will not heal. At least, with her, he silently accepts her medical requests without question.</p>
<p>Post 3x13. Abby and Marcus in the aftermath of her actions at Polis. Warning: do not read if you find this stuff sensitive - this is the depiction of a relationship in the beginning stages of break down. Will have a happy ending, but there is hurt on the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: do not read if you find this stuff sensitive - this is the depiction of a relationship in the beginning stages of break down. Will have a happy ending, but there is hurt on the way.
> 
> I saw the promo for 3x13, and had to write this.

His knee, after the bomb at TonDC and the events in polis, is almost completely shattered. He walks with a heavy limp now that, although she knows will significantly improve over the next year or two, is permanent. His military career is certainly over, unless they can get it as close to a near fixed state as possible. She doubts it.

He comes to her for physio. It's awkward, and sometimes Abby selfishly wishes she could palm off the regular appointments on Jackson instead, but she knows Marcus will stubbornly beat him down on any recommendations of bed rest, and he will not heal. At least, with her, he silently accepts her medical requests without question.

Physio is the only time they see one another alone these days. They wordlessly move around one another with the practice of regular routine. He does not need to be told to take his trousers off anymore, and the sight of his naked thighs no longer terrifies her.

He settles onto the edge of the bed in just his shirt and boxers, legs dangling over the edge. She turns to him, her eyes immediately going to his red, mangled knee. They settle into the familiar indifference of doctor and patient. He still looks away, over her shoulder, when she touches him - her fingers pushing as gently as she can to the bone beneath, feeling how it moves. Sometimes he inhales sharply, and his hand will fly up from the edge of the bed as if to grab her wrist, but he never does. Instead he either brings up a balled fist to his thinly pressed lips, or it goes back to the bed, and grips tighter.

Abby has never fallen out of love before, yet she imagines this is what it feels like. This what's happening to them, she thinks, and that with each passing day that they are both too terrified to address what has happened between them, the rift grows. There are still feelings - deep, unspeakable feelings that sit heavy on her chest. They make her want to cry every time she sees him.

She hates to think it, but it is more painful than having a lover die. At least there is closure. Here, she will always love this man. Every time she sees him those emotions come rushing back. In a few years maybe it will be nothing but a dull ache in her chest every time they lock eyes - the heart exercising the old, habitual pulse of longing for love that her mind has tried to forget. She does not want this. She wants to break down. She wants to kiss him. She wants to feel the burn of his beard on her cheeks, breasts, thighs. She wants to tell him she loves him.

Instead she puts a hand behind his calf, another just above his knee, and carefully stretches his leg out towards her, feeling the muscles moving beneath the skin. She secretly savours the feel of soft flesh in her palms, the downy curls of leg hair pressed between her splayed fingers. A fleeting desire to kiss his inner thigh grips her. The shame of it heats her neck, ears and cheeks with blood.

She clears her throat, "how does that feel?"

"Horrible," he croaks, voice not used to being used these days.

"I'm sorry," she says, both in reference to to pushing him a bit too far this session, and for putting him there in the first place.

His face softens from a grimace to concern, "it's not your fault."

It does not calm her. It does not erase the fact that she wakes in the dead of night with those images of him replayed fresh in her mind. It does not ease the severe discomfort that those dreams - where her dream, chipped self is not remotely emotionally affected by the horror of seeing him like that - leave her feeling haunted the rest of the day. She cannot forget that he is hurting, emotionally and physically, because of her.

He is vulnerable, damaged for life, and it is most certainly her fault, even if it was indirectly.

She understands his crushing guilt about the culling now more than ever before. She understands his unending desire for self sacrifice, for the chance to atone. She wishes Clarke had pulled that trigger. Maybe then she would not have to live with the knowledge of the pain she has caused both her daughter and almost-lover.

"Can you stand for me?"

Marcus slips from the bed, Abby gripping his forearms as way of support, and gingerly puts weight on his right leg. Her hands fall to her sides the moment she realises he is fine - that he does not need her holding him.

"Good," she mutters, pulling a pen from her pocket, walking over to her disorganised desk, and pulling out his paperwork. She notes her observations. Slight improvement in posture. Near unassisted standing. Still reluctant to bear too much weight on the damaged leg.

"Can you walk?" She says.

"Where to?"

"Just several steps ahead, and then back to the bed is fine."

He does as she asks, his face betraying the spark of pain that runs up to his hip just as much as the heavy limp.

He refuses to look at her.

She notes down his progress - or lack thereof. Significant pain still present. Limp still apparent. Water therapy may be the best way to get him used to bearing weight on it again, and to learn to tolerate the pain. She makes a mental note to schedule time away from camp for the both of them, to take him to the lake a few minutes away and test his leg under the gravitational relief of water.

Marcus slides back onto the bed, and Abby takes her position back in front of him. She mentions testing his leg down at the lake. He looks hesitant at first, but silently accepts with a curt nod of the head. She knows that he is grieving the loss of his mobility as well as his inability to physically be commander, and she knows that this is the only reason he agrees to do this with her.

He thanks her as he pulls his trousers on, and she watches as he slowly leaves.

Abby has felt many things in her life, but the deep, empty, loneliness that has settled over her in the past few weeks since Marcus' torture is not one of them.

* * *


	2. Nightmares

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who left kudos and comments on my last chapter! It's been awhile since I was last on the Fanfiction writing scene, and that was back in my heavy FF.Net days, so it's been nice to have the encouragement! Hoping you enjoy this chapter :)

The nights are the worst.

During the day she can fill her time enough with patients that she can largely forget everything that passed since Marcus’ hasty departure under the threat of a death sentence.

At night her subconscious betrays her. She wakes up in a tangle of bed sheets, heavily gasping and completely disorientated. She rolls over after her heart calms down, and starts silently crying into her pillow.

Clarke, who sleeps in the makeshift bed they crammed in next to hers when they came back from Polis, never wakes during Abby’s night terrors. Or she pretends not to. Either way, Abby is thankful for it – she’s not sure how she’d handle her daughter being aware of her distress, even if she’s feigning ignorance.

It’s always the same. The unwavering horror that runs throughout her body is not reflected in her actions. It’s like one of those dreams, where you know that you’re in danger – close to death – and you need to run, but no matter how hard you try, your legs refuse to move. She feels that heaviness deep in her chest every time she realises she is no longer in control of her body. She watches through her own eyes at the nightmare that unfolds before her like one of those horror movies they used to screen Saturday evenings on the Ark.

Every night she desperately wants to stop herself, to unstrap him and tell him to go… just go. But her hands do not move from her sides. No words leave her mouth, except: “just tell us where Clarke and the others are hiding.”

“I can’t do that.”

Her eyes look up to meet the Arcadian soldier standing to her right. The nod she gives him is so slight, it’s almost miss-able.

God, she wishes ALIE had never made her look back at Marcus in that moment.

But she does, and she sees something pass across his face that she has very rarely seen him demonstrate: fear.

In Mount Weather, when she was on that table, his expression had been filled with emotional pain. In TonDC, under all that rubble, it had been reluctant resignation at his fate. The instant she looks back at him after giving the silent order he is terrified.

When the hammer comes crashing down onto the head of the steel rod just above his knee, Marcus is briefly silent. His eyes, still fixated on her, widen in their sockets. His mouth gasps open with an inaudible scream. His back arches in a violent jerk away from the hard wood at his back. His head rolls to the side, facing her, his eyes squeezed as tight as he can make them.

And then he lets out such a low, deep scream that something in her momentarily breaks. It is primal – a vocalisation of all the air in his lungs being expressed in one swift motion. It is an animalistic expression of shock and indescribable pain.

ALIE manages to regain control just as Marcus begins to try and drag in breath into his empty lungs, his whole chest trembling with the effort. Each breath he takes from that moment is quick and deep, as if he can’t fill himself with air quick enough – as if he is a man who has broken to the water’s surface mere minutes from drowning.

His whole upper body begins to shake, and she realises that he is crying.

“Please, Abby… please.”

“Again.” She does not recognise her own voice as she speaks.

It greatly unsettles her.

The second blow of the hammer drives the sharpened point of the rod right into the space between Marcus’ kneecap and the bottom of his femur. It completely shatters the former and slightly fractures the latter. She knows this because she has seen the x-rays.

The second blow causes him to repeatedly smack his head against the surface beneath him as he lets out another drawn out cry, as if causing himself more pain might distract him from what is being inflicted on him. Once again he yells and cries until there is no air left. He chokes, coughs and pants as his body forces him to inhale more.

It is at this point that Abby understands trauma has started to set into his body, and he is no longer in control of himself.

A gunshot rings out. The guard to her right falls, noiselessly, to the ground, the hammer clattering across the table between Marcus’ legs, and then falling to the floor at Abby’s feet.

She turns to see Clarke some steps behind her, gun poised high in the air, a bullet ready to bury itself into her forehead if necessary.

“Mom!” her daughter pauses, despair on her face, “Get away from him… please…”

The dream always ends the moment Abby bends to pick up the dropped hammer. Something hard and heavy collides with the side of her head, clipping the side of her cheek and splitting the skin there, as well as her upper lip.

Abby’s not sure what would have happened had Jasper not been there at that precise moment – if he had not just happened to have the hollow pole to hand, had he not thoughtlessly rushed over at the scene unfolding in front of him, had he not swung it in a moment of instinctual desperation.

He still apologises every time he sees her, and she always grips his arm reassuringly, and tells him he shouldn’t be sorry, that she should be thanking him.

And she does in her head every day. Abby’s not sure that he’ll ever truly know how thankful she really is that he knocked her out cold, that it gave Clarke the opportunity to get that damned chip out of her head, that it probably saved her life, or Marcus’… or both.

It doesn’t assuage his guilt anymore than Marcus’ insistence it wasn’t her fault does hers, though.

* * *

Abby is in medical stitching up the consequence of a poorly thought through drinking game when Bellamy bursts through the tent flaps. Jackson throws him a disapproving look at having startled the two patients nearest the entrance with his reckless arrival. The boy shoots him an apologetic stare, and then hesitates in the doorway.

“Abby?”

She looks up after pulling through the needle, and glances over her shoulder at him.

“What is it?” she says, before going back to her work. There’s only three more stitches to complete, and, if she has to admit, she’s a little irked at his intrusion.

“I need to borrow you.”

“Can it wait?”

“It’s Marcus.”

This makes her pause mid-stitch, before she notices the grimace on her patient’s face and quickly finishes it.

“What’s he done?” Abby means it in reference to his tendency to overexert himself, but it comes off a little colder than she intended. She feels herself cringe at how it must sound.

She’s not stupid, she knows that her and Marcus’ relationship – or current lack thereof – isn’t exactly secret to the camp, and they haven’t done much to hide the abrupt distance that has settled between them since polis. Still, she sometimes wonders if she makes the gossip worse in situations like this.

“Well…” he starts, glancing at Jackson who meets his gaze, and then the crowded tent full of people who can hear, “It’s not… you won’t be long, will you?”

She looks back at him then, confused, “Is he okay?”

This sounds a lot softer, as if she’s betraying the true feelings that underlie the pain and hurt she and Marcus have built between them. She can feel several pairs of eyes watching her, and she’d snap at them to mind their own business if she wasn’t now so concerned.

“Um, not exactly, no.” He does not care to elaborate further, so she finishes off her stitches, passes the patient over to Jackson, and follows Bellamy out of medical.

She stops him just outside, and in the hush of the dark night around them, she asks exactly what’s wrong.

“He’s er… hurt his leg, in the shower,” he whispers, making sure they’re not overheard, “He won’t let me in there, yelled actually, but he can’t get out and asked for you, specifically.”

Abby can’t hide the shock on her face.

“Me?”

It might not be the best response, or the first question she should be asking, but she doesn’t quite understand why he’s refusing Bellamy’s help, and instead asking for her.

“I think,” he says under his breath, “he’s embarrassed. He got really angry when I insisted on helping him.”

She wastes no more time talking and instead makes her way straight to Marcus’ quarters with Bellamy in tow.

Just outside the door, she turns to him, voice and expression soft, “It’s okay, I’ve got this.”

The boy hesitates, as if testing whether it really will be okay or if she’s just saying it to placate him. But eventually he tilts his head in a nod, hands on hips, and makes his way back out of the body of the ship, towards the night air and to the guard shift he’s scheduled for.

A gentle knock on the door merits no response. She waits silently for a moment or two, purely out of respect, before letting herself in.

Abby has not been in Marcus’ room for months. It’s a little messier than she remembers – one or two of his spare t-shirts are slung over the back of his desk chair, and there’s some disorganised papers laying across his desk.

His bed sheets are unmade, and the image of the two of them tangled amongst them briefly flits into her mind. She blushes at the image, a little ashamed as she no longer feels that she has the rights to such thoughts.

“Marcus?”

It is quiet for a moment, and then: “in here.”

His voice is rough, cautious, and drifts to her from the bathroom.

She does not both knocking this time – he is already aware that’s she there, that his privacy is about to be invaded.

The room is filled with a thick mist, and she wonders just how long he has been unable to get out of the bath.

Kicking the clothes he’s discarded on the bathmat out of the way, she strips herself of her medical coat, and hikes up her sleeves. Looking up at the shower curtain makes her pause. Beyond the thin, white sheet, she can make out the pink nakedness of Marcus’ outline.

She steels herself. She is a doctor. He is her patient. He needs her help.

The shower curtain is pushed back, and she is met with the sight of his drenched hair, his curved back, bare buttocks, long, lithe legs. Both his hands are braced on the wall opposite; his right leg lifted a little so all his weight is borne on his left.

“Marcus.” Her voice is firm, but she does not know what she means to say. Instead, she reaches out, a hand pressing into the wet flesh of his hip for leverage as she reaches over to turn the nozzle in front of him off. Half of her arm and face is soaked in the process, and she pushes the wet, loose strands of her hair out of her eyes.

He is breathing heavily, and she can feel the muscles under her palm tighten. His skin starts to pucker as the cold air from his bedroom hits his back. A ripple runs across his skin.

Bending down and grabbing the towel he’d thrown out for himself on the floor, she starts to wrap it around his waist. He does not take it immediately – one hand awkwardly moves away from the wall, indecisively looking for an edge to grab, whilst the other remains firmly planted.

“Marcus, you need to take it.”

He sighs heavily.

“I can’t I… I can’t put any weight on my knee.”

She realises, a little too late, that his arms have largely been supporting him this whole time, and that he can’t move both away from the wall to secure the towel around himself.

Carefully, she leans over, her knees painfully pressing into the rim of the bathtub as she fully pulls the towel around him, and tucks it in. His spare hand goes to her wrist as she does so, and they stay like that for a moment.

“Abby I can’t… I can’t put any pressure on it, and I can’t lift it over the edge,” he says, “I’ve tried.”

“It’s okay.” She kicks off her shoes, and climbs over the edge so she stands to his right, her hands still supporting his hips. Her socks soak through in mere seconds, but all she cares about is him not falling and doing himself more harm. “What happened?”

“I slipped, tried to regain my balance and my knee went into the wall.”

Gently, she gets him to move his hands to her shoulders, and using herself as a pivoting support, eases one of her legs out of the bath so that he faces the rest of the room. She then hooks a hand under his bad knee and slowly lifts it until his foot is level with the rim, and pulls it over.

“You’re going to have to sit on the edge,” she says, “and use me as support.”

He does as she tells him, and although it’s slow, eventually he is sat on the edge, his bad leg between hers. She gives him a moment to collect himself, his hands still tightly clinging to her shoulders.

After awhile she says: “Are you okay?”

“No.” It is short and almost bitter. It leaves a tight lump in her throat and makes her want to cry. She realises now that she is the only person he trusts enough to see him like this: broken, emotional, and hopeless.

Marcus’ hands hold her tighter before he lets her go. He then surprises her by grabbing her hips and roughly pulling her to him, his forehead resting on her chest. He soaks through her shirt, but she doesn’t care. Her fingers tangle themselves in his long hair, pressing him closer, and she buries her face there.

“My knee is utterly fucked,” he mutters with a cracked voice.

It kills her to know he is on the verge of crying.

“It isn’t completely broken, Marcus. It’s fixable.”

“It won’t ever be the same, though.”

She doesn’t know what to say to that, so instead she offers him the truth: “no.”

Silence, and then: “I miss you.”

It breaks her. She starts to cry, tries to hide it, but the deep sniff she makes to stop the tears from falling is so audible that he knows how much his words have affected her anyway.

“I miss you too,” she admits.

“That’s fixable too, right?” He looks up at her then, dark eyes red with emotion.

She doesn’t bother hiding hers anymore, and pushes his sopping hair from his face, cradling his cheeks in her hands as she cries with him.

“I told you, Marcus. We’re in this together.”


	3. Moonbeams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, after 3x13 this fic is obviously now slightly AU - in this reality Marcus never took the chip, obviously, just Abby. But I am including the attempted seduction scene that happened between the two of them in this fic, as I think it just adds a whole new layer to the difficulties they face as a couple in the aftermath. Hope you guys enjoy!

After their mutual breakdown in the bathroom, Abby had managed to get Marcus sat down on the edge of his bed by taking an arm over her shoulders. For a moment he had sat there as she stood in front of him, both of them breathless from the physical exertion.

He hadn't looked at her since resting his head on her chest, and she had started to worry he was closing in on himself again.

Steadily, she'd picked up a spare pair of his boxers from the fresh clothes he'd left on the seat of his chair, and handed them to him.

"Thanks," he muttered, laying them down on the towel that dipped between his slightly parted legs.

"No problem," she'd said, eyeing him briefly, "I'll leave you to it, then."

She'd hesitated momentarily, watching him start to bend down and, ungracefully, start to pull them over his feet.

She had left after that, both of them beginning to feel the pressure of silence lean heavily on them. The raw emotions of a few moments ago, having bled out their pores, stagnated in the air, making it hard to breathe.

Abby had gone back to medical to finish up a few last things before slipping into the darkness of her own quarters. Clarke, with the lateness of the hour, was already hidden beneath the sheets of her cot. Her breathing was steady with sleep, and her bare feet – a habit that had presented itself early in childhood - stuck out the bottom of her sheets.

This made her smile - a rush of long forgotten memories of her child's peculiarities coming back to her. It was bittersweet, the nostalgia. It made her happy to have lived through those moments - to have been lucky enough to witness them - but at the same time grieved that they were over and could never be relived.

Exhausted, emotionally and physically, Abby pulled off her boots and trousers, and slid into bed.

* * *

Her fingers trail over the hot, pulsing skin of his neck, down, across his collarbone, nipples, ribs.

His breaths come out in long, hard hums of rising pleasure, his head leaning back against the hard metal wall of his bedroom as his eyes flutter closed.

She slips a leg over both of his, the bedcovers falling away from their hips as she straddles him. Abby exhales slowly at the soft, fleshy heat of him now pressed between her thighs.

Marcus reaches up and pulls her to him, his hands travelling down the expanse of her back; fingers following the indented path of her spine. His lips ghosting across her neck, imprinting near kisses there.

“Oh God,” he breathes against her neck as she involuntarily bucks from his ministrations – the hard bone of her pelvis colliding with his. Hastily, he reaches for himself as their lips meet messily, tongues indiscriminately tasting teeth, gums, skin.

She pushes against him again, this time feeling herself part, being filled. Now so unaccustomed to having a man inside her, it stings a little with neglect. The feeling makes her head fall back with a deep sigh as they start up a gentle pace, stretching out aching parts of her she forgot existed.

The dull ache slowly gives way to pleasure, and before long neither of them can help themselves. The cot beneath creaks in time to their rapid gasps.

Neither of them last long, and it’s in that lingering moment of pleasurable release, where Marcus’ eyes fly open to take in the full picture of her expression as he tenses, then shudders with satisfaction inside her, that the steel rod slams into his neck.

His blood is pouring over her closed fingers, clasped around the weapon, when she wakes up.

Unlike all the other nights Abby has woken to a nightmare since leaving Polis, this time she audibly cries out. Her body, partially rigid from sleep, involuntarily jumps with the shock of suddenly waking when it shouldn’t.

She can’t help it – she immediately starts to cry as she sits up, a hand covering her mouth as if that might stifle some of the sound. She is shaking – hard – and she can’t stop it.

From the other side of the room, Abby can hear the rustle of bed sheets as Clarke props herself up on an elbow.

“Mom?”

She doesn’t hear it the first time. The second time, she startles, looking out across the darkness of the room to where the dark outline of her daughter is.

“Mom?”

“I’m fine,” she sniffs, hastily wiping her wet cheeks with the sleeve of her bedclothes.

Clarke doesn’t push it. She watches her mother for a brief instant, before nodding slightly and lying back down. She understands that sometimes, you just need to be left alone with your own thoughts.

Abby sits in her bed, legs folded, for God knows how long, trying to push the horror of this new nightmare out of her mind.

Her memories of what happened under ALIE’s control are fuzzy at best – the strongest being last before she blacked out, and the most traumatic – yet the more time that passes since she regained control of her body, they get sharper. New memories come to the fore.

For a long while she does not know why the nightmares have turned sexual. At some point during the night, a faint recollection comes to her, of a sofa, of Marcus’ hard body beneath her… a look of utter betrayal passing over his face. She holds onto it, focuses on it until the whole memory comes back in dregs.

And then she shoots off the bed, not bothering to get dressed, not caring to notice that Clarke has been awake this whole time as well, and rushes out into the empty corridor beyond her quarters.

Though she tries her hardest to be quiet, to not disturb the vastly reduced population of Skykru that are asleep within these walls, all she can hear is the sound of her bare feet on the cold metal – and it sounds deafening in the stillness.

When she reaches his quarters, she knocks as loudly as she dares at this time. It takes a few knocks, each one growing in volume and urgency.

And then he is there, sleepy, squinting into the pitch black, dressed only in his boxers, confused.

“Abby?”

She does not hesitate. Her arms wrap around his neck, her body ramming into his. Her hands are in his hair, fingers buried deep down to his scalp.

“I remember… I remember the room, in Polis, oh God, Marcus, I’m so sorry… I’m so sorry,” she sobs into his neck.

He does not respond immediately, and she worries that she’s overstepped the mark. But then his arms wrap around her fiercely, his fingers digging into her flesh as if he is terrified she’ll fall through them.

They stand in the darkness, with only a few beams of moonlight coming through the portholes of the ship, half in the corridor, and half in his quarters.

Abby does not know where they go from here, but she savours the fleeting moment as if her life depends on it.


	4. Confessions

Marcus pulls Abby into the privacy of his quarters when he realises that they are both shaking with the draught that runs through the Ark’s corridors. Gripping her forearm tightly with one hand as the other shuts the door behind them, he glances back at her, and is just able to make out the tears covering her cheeks.

“Hey,” he whispers, both hands coming up to cup her face, his thumbs wiping the worst of her grief away, “hey, hey, hey. Abby, it’s okay… it’s okay.”

“I remember,” she simply says. And then: “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you say anything?”

She watches him swallow and deliberately avoid her gaze. His hands fall away from her face, as if he suddenly feels like he has no right to be touching her that way.

Abby watches as a wayward lock of hair falls into his eyes as his head dips down. She has watched this particular curl before – it seems to have a habit of falling out of place, of resting across his forehead and coiling just under his brow. The amount of times she has fought the urge to reach out and push it back into place are countless. She fights it each and every time because she is not sure she has the willpower to stop her hand from following through, of her fingers lightly grazing against his scalp before lazily pulling down to run over his mess of beard.

Marcus’ voice is hoarse when he finally manages to speak:

“I had hoped you wouldn’t remember.”

It sounds foolish. Probably because it is – she was always going to remember at some point, and they were always going to reach this impasse.

“Why?” There’s a slight edge to her tone, and anger she can’t help from coming through as she speaks.

“After Polis… after we came back, after that… thing, was taken out of you… after you were yourself again… I saw what it did to you, the guilt.” He hesitates, hands coming to rest on his hips as he dares to catch her eye again, “I can still see what it’s doing to you. Every time you look at me, I see your eyes go straight to my damn limp. God, I try and step lighter on it so it’s not so god damn obvious, as if that might help. Every time you touch me… I see how you look for my eyes, like you’re asking for some kind of permission. Every time, Abby. Just being here, being around you causes you more pain, more guilt. And I didn’t want to add to that, if I could help it. I still don’t.”

“That’s not for you to decide, Marcus.” She looks up at him, sees the shame passing across his features, and remembers the look of deep sadness that had taken a hold of him at the realisation that she was not herself – that her kisses meant nothing. An aching lump forms in her throat at the thought of his heart visibly breaking right in front of her.

She cannot help but hate herself.

"Why didn't you give up Clarke?" It's more of a wondering, rather than a question, as if his caving in earlier could have spared them both half the pain. 

He does not reply.

"Marcus?" She says. Her tone isn't unkind, but it is firm.

He runs a hand over his mouth, down his beard, still refusing to look at her. Then he sighs, nods slightly in assent as if silently answering a question he's asked in his own head.

"Okay," he says, then walks over to his desk and pulls open a draw.

Abby watches him as he places the moonshine out on the desk, and then start rummaging for cups. She focuses for a moment on the expanse of his neck, where, if she concentrates enough, she make out the slight jump of skin as his heart beats. She wants to reach out - press her fingers to it lightly, feeling the full force of his life tapping back against the beat of her own, like a whisper, constantly repeating: "I am here, I am here, I am here."

"What are you doing?" She finally asks.

"You can ask me that question again," he says, pouring two cups and abruptly downing one, before handing her the other, "I just... Need to... Uh... Okay. Here's the deal, I'm going to be honest with you. Ask me anything, anything at all."

Marcus stands, hands on hips, eyeing the open bottle as he waits for her to respond.

Whatever Abby had thought he'd act like, she hadn't expected this - this nervous vulnerability that he's kept private all this time, that he feels he can only set loose with a drop of foul tasting alcohol burning a line down his throat, setting fire to a false confidence that lies in the pit of his stomach. She finds she is equally as terrified by the prospect of brutal honesty between them, and knocks back her own cup. The action is enough to get his attention again, and his expression softens as he realises just how alike they must be feeling.

"Fine. But if we're going to do this, it works both ways. I ask a question, you answer, and then we switch."

"Okay."

"Why didn't you give up Clarke? You didn't even know where she was. Not really. Yet you still wouldn't give in."

He seems him struggle to give her the honest truth - his desire to blurt out "because it was the right thing to do" is strong. He bends over the desk slightly, leaning both hands heavily on it as he sighs, and then takes a deep breath.

Eventually he says, voice cracking a little with emotion:

"I couldn't do it because she is your daughter. You love her more than anything, as a parent should. I couldn't do it, even though I knew she likely wasn't there, because I promised myself I'd keep her safe, for your sake."

They both know he has not finished, not completely, so when Marcus chooses not to continue, Abby forces him to.

"Why, Marcus?"

"Because I love you."

His admission hangs heavy between them. Abby traces the curve of his naked back, tries to memorise the faint patches of soft, dark hair that curl over the waistband of his pants, at the mild indent at the base of his spine.

He is beautiful, she thinks, with his confession still lingering in her ears. How has she not realised this before? How has she gone years not noticing how beautiful this man really is with all those layers stripped away?

It feels natural - more natural than it could ever feel - in that instant, staring at the dimples of his bent spine, watching his ribs expand and contract with breath, to say what she does next:

"Marcus... I... I'm in love with you, too."

Her chest aches. Her eyes burn. She desperately wants to touch him, to feel the fervent heat of his flesh under her palms, but she simply waits for her words sink in.

Turning his head to look her in the eye, still gripping the table for support, she is distinctly reminded of them both standing in front of a transparent board, his eyes locked on hers, before flicking to her mouth so briefly that she almost missed it. Almost.

Straightening up, eyes still intent on her, Marcus turns and takes a step forward, breaching the bubble of her personal space. He looks as desperate as she feels, as if he wants to say or do something, but can't figure out exactly what that is. His hands come up, as if to cup her face as he did in Polis, but the memory of it must pass across his mind as it does hers, because he hesitates.

He looks at her, pleading for her to give him a sign that "yes, this is okay, touch me, feel me, you touch isn't what haunts me."

And Abby reaches up to where his hands linger near her cheeks, taking one in each hand, and pressing them into her skin as her thumbs run across the backs of his hands.

"Why?" He murmurs.

She's confused momentarily, wondering what he means, when it hits her hard: "Why? Why do you love me? How could you possibly?"

"Because you're a good man, Marcus. You always have been. But you hid it well, and I just never cared to notice." It conveys more than she thought she would be able to with just words. She hopes he understands.

A hand comes to rest on his chest. The thin hair that peppers his pecs tickles her fingertips. She rubs her fingers gently over them, committing the feeling to her bank of memories.

The movement is not lost on him. He watches carefully as her hands gradually travel across his bare form, up his neck and to the locks of thick hair at the nape. His eyes close, hands slipping from her face, down her sides, past her unsupported, heavy breasts that are separated from him only by her loose nightshirt, and to the sliver of skin exposed just above the band of her shorts.

At first she is hesitant, wary of the fact that in their short affair he has rejected two of the three kisses she's tried to press to his skin, whether she was sane or otherwise. But then she leans up and forward anyway, deliberately pressing a kiss to the bottom right corner of his lower lip, covering the scar that sits there. She does not know that is the first scar he gained in life - heavily falling head first from the top bunk as his father slept on, oblivious in his drunken stupor until his son's high pitched screams rang out. She does not know - but she guesses it is, as her earliest memories of him are each marked by this distinctive gash. Her tongue lightly flicks across it, starting a reaction from him - his head tilts towards her, lips parting and catching her top lip between them. His tongue brushes the side of hers as he does so, and then runs across the inside of her lip as he sucks it gently.

He pulls away first, forcing her to do likewise as she does not dare push him further. The sound of their broken kiss echoes around them as their foreheads come to rest together.

"What are you afraid of?" She asks with her eyes closed, her fingers twirling a rebellious curl of his hair at the back of his head.

"I'm afraid it wasn't real."

It kills her. She struggles to hold the emotion in.

Every touch, every lingering stare that passed between them has been thrown into doubt. He is afraid she never truly loved him, and it makes her feel sick.

In the chaos, in their mutual self-wallowing in the following weeks since Polis that forced them to actively avoid one another, Abby has failed to tell him when and why she took that damn chip.

"Oh, God, Marcus... I..." She pulls his head back from hers, forcing him to look her straight in the eye, "It was, it was all real... I didn't take that thing until after you left Arcadia."

The relief pulls the air from his lungs in one swift second. His eyes tear, and he grips her tighter. He nods in acknowledgment.

"Raven... They tied me up. They tried to kill her... I had no choice." She is keen for him to understand that - that she would never willingly do something like that.

Outside, in the corridor, a door opens and then clanks shut. Footsteps pass outside the front of Marcus' door, heading for outside. Arcadia has begun to wake in the early hours of the morning.

Marcus glances at the door.

"You better head back," his eyes flicker to her bare legs, but instead of stating the obvious about being caught semi-naked in the Ark's corridors, he opts for: "before Clarke misses you."

She nods, and pulls away to make her exit.

He stops her briefly, taking her face in his hands and kissing her chastely before she leaves.

 


	5. Bedside Manners

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long! Moved house and all that.
> 
> Thanks to everyone for the lovely comments and kudos! Makes my day :)
> 
> Got a bit of a naughty one today ;)

Since Polis and Pike's capture, Arcadia has been - technically speaking - leaderless. Initial thoughts had been to make sure those left alive after their freedom from the City of Light were cared for - that the broken pieces of what had once been a community, were slowly pulled back together before anyone dares speak about politics.

There had been talks of Marcus taking over in the first few days, even though he was in and out of consciousness and in no fit state to command. In the end, it was decided the best course of action was to delegate various tasks amongst those fit enough after Polis to lead their respective area of expertise, until a suitable chancellor could be elected. Abby was in charge of healthcare. Bellamy, in Marcus' absence, headed the militia, overseeing the reconstruction of building, fences - anything that needed manual labour. And Raven over saw any technical repairs.

Slowly, the people of Arcadia started to feel like they had regained some semblance of the life they had been living before. 

Now, there are talks of nominating people for the chancellorship. Of course, Marcus' is a name that keeps coming up.

Before all of this, Abby was certain he'd be perfect for the the role - she still did in many respects. But now, seeing what the City of Light had done to him, both physically and emotionally, part of her didn't want to burden him, not yet, and the chancellorship was almost guaranteed to do that.

Yet, despite his busted knee and resignation from command under medical advisement, he still played a fairly large role in the running of the community. And that is good, Abby thinks, because it gives him something positive to focus on, after everything that's been stripped away from him. It doesn't stop her worrying, though, that sometimes their people's reliance on him is a bit too much. At least for now. Maybe, when his leg is healed, and they're healed, he'll be ready for that. 

She sincerely hopes so.

Regardless, it is because of Marcus' heavy influence in Arcadia's daily runnings that she does not see him for a few days. 

It worries her. 

She had hoped that their brief moment of honesty in the early hours of the morning a few days back would set them on the path to recovering... whatever it was that was between them... or might have been. Now, she isn't so sure. She is nervous - the doubts, left unchecked, creep back in to cloud the clarity of her thoughts.

Marcus loves her, or at least he did, she reminds herself as she tidies away the remains of a minor surgery. And that's what she should focus on, right now, because by God does she love him.

Glancing at the small desktop clock on the workbench, she notes that he is nearly 10 minutes late to his check up. It sets her on edge. Minutes crawl by as she deliberately busies herself around medical, her eyes constantly shifting to the open doorway. 

She is terrified he will not come.

Then again, she's almost equally terrified that he will.

"Oh, hi Marcus." 

Jackson's voice echoing across to her from somewhere near the door makes her tense. 

She tries to glance over her shoulder to where Marcus stands - as casually as she can - as she strips off dirtied bedsheets. His hands are on his hips, as he awkwardly waits for her to finish.

"Jackson," the man in question responds, tilting his head in a friendly, if a little stiff, nod.

Obviously, he is just as nervous about meeting her after a couple of days, she notes.

Chucking the bedsheets in the laundry corner, Abby turns, and smiles at him as she walks over to the sink and begins washing her hands.

"I see your knee's a little better than last I saw you," she says.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, yes it is, thanks. Pain meds really helped with that."

"Good... Shall we take a look at it then?"

"Course."

Abby cringes at their conversation as she leads him into the small room sectioned off from the rest of medical. They've slipped back into doctor/patient formalities again, or at least it feels like it.

Marcus hikes off his jacket as soon as they're through the flaps and chucks it on the stretcher. She doesn't even manage to seal the entrance closed before his shoes are off, and starts unbuttoning his trousers.

When she turns around, he's perched on the edge of the stretcher, sat in just his short sleeved t-shirt, boxers and white trainer socks. She's not sure what to make of his evident comfort in being in various states of undress around her now. Before, when they hadn't spoken about what had happened between them at Polis, she had dismissed it as habit from her medical examinations. But now, after seeing almost every inch of his naked body, after his near naked embraces, she isn't so certain. It calms her a little to think that his comfort of being undressed with her is more to do with his relationship with her - romantic or otherwise - than it does because she is simply his doctor.

She mirrors the gesture by taking off her doctor's coat and ridding herself of the gloves she had just, minutes after washing her hands, needlessly put on. If he notices this deliberate de-shedding of hers, he does not register it.

She goes to his knee, skimming her fingers over the divet of sensitive skin just above the cap. The damaged skin, now void of hair, feels smoother than the rest - slightly squishy and it wrinkles around the edges if pushed. It's healing nicely - the skin at least.

"Good," she mutters, going to press her fingers to bones in his leg. She feels Marcus tense slightly, and she worries she's hurt him. "Sorry."

"Um, no, it's okay."

She looks up to him then, and notices the slight flush of colour on his cheeks. His expression is more of embarrassment than pain, and Abby, confused, ponders what on earth he'd have to be embarrassed about.

His eyes meet hers rather sheepishly, and he throws her a tight lipped smile that suggests that something has suddenly pushed him into uncomfortable territory.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, "I can't... help it."

She doesn't know what to say, so her eyes flicker back down to his knee instead, thinking to gloss over the moment, when she spots his meaning - literally.

Her blush is as instantaneous as it is involuntary. She knows she should look away from the slightly pronounced mound growing in his boxer shorts, but she can't.

Transfixed by the moment, she watches as he pulses to the beat of the blood she can feel under the skin of his leg. She watches long enough to see if swell a little more, and the thought that her staring at him - like this - might be pushing Marcus into an even deeper state of arousal than if she had simply had the decency to look away.

But she didn't. And now - she realises as she finally glances at him - he is staring back at her with an intensity that cripples all rational thought. 

Lust, is the only word Abby can think to describe it as. A long, lingering desire to satiate the unbidden feelings welling up within him.

She feels it too. She feels herself tighten, feels the disappointment of tightening around nothing, and knows she can no longer help herself.

She thinks that neither of them can. 

Slowly, unwilling to break eye contact, Abby gently places her free hand on his other knee, testing the waters.

Marcus breathes deeply, refusing to tear his eyes away from her. He observes her as her hands slowly start to travel upwards, further up his thighs, further up to the hem of his boxer shorts.

Abby relishes the sensation of his leg hair under her palms - feels her own desire growing as each new inch of flesh she touches feels just that bit warmer, until her thumbs are skirting under the material keeping her from her goal. She rubs the insides of his heated thighs, just inside his boxers, and then leans forwards slightly, as if to kiss him.

It's an unspoken ask for consent on her part, a hesitation borne of self doubt from everything they've been through.

Marcus' hands fall onto hers and he closes the distance, all the while his eyes stay on hers, until they flutter closed.

And then he's Kissing her. His lips move painstakingly slow against hers, tasting them, pulling them between his and running his tongue against the most sensitive parts. 

His beard is soft - so much softer than one would expect - and Abby can't help but press a little closer to feel more of it as it moves against her top lip.

Her right hand slips higher, burying itself deep into the folds of his pants, seeking him out. 

And suddenly she's there. 

Marcus breaks away ever so slightly, the sound of their wet lips pulling apart ringing in their ears. 

Exhaling deeply with her touch, the only thing he can manage to vocalise is a guttural, "Ahh..."

She imagines he means it to be her name, but the tip of her thumb connecting with his tip causes him to involuntarily jolt, his hands flying up to grip her elbows.

Nuzzling down into the mess of beard at his jaw, she sighs heavily against him as her hand begins to pump.

A hand comes up to fist her loose hair and push her face even further into his neck. Abby responds with a playful nip, mesmerised by the way her grip is making him come completely undone.

From the corner of her vision, she can see Marcus' eyes are loosely closed, his head thrown back to give her lips more space, and he is breathing hard through his mouth.

She wants to see him like this every night - completely at her mercy, vulnerable, open...

God she fucking loves this. And, really, she thinks, after all the pain and misery she's caused him, giving him this - being able to give him this much pleasure - is exactly what is needed for them to heal. Whether it's better for her or for him, she isn't sure. All she knows is that when Marcus Kane comes under the sole stroke of her hand - the pent up sexual desire releasing itself in a wave of wet hot mess, spreading out against the material of his pants, running down her hand and seeping between her fingers - something clicks into place.

For a moment they both freeze, her hand still firmly wrapped around him, as they both try to process exactly what has happened.

Marcus eyes her warily, almost waiting for her reaction so he can act accordingly. 

The words "I'm afraid it wasn't real" pass through her mind, and she feels the need to reassure him.

She presses a kiss to his lips as she starts to stroke him a little again.

And that's all he needs, because he takes her face in his hands and mutters between kisses: "I love you, I love you. God I love you."

A sharp laugh from the main part of medical makes them jump apart, her hand reflexively flying out from his boxers. 

But they are alone. No one is aware of what they have done on the other side of the flaps. 

Marcus huffs out a relieved laugh at this realisation, and at the sight of the hand Abby is precariously holding out to one side. 

She grins back at him, walking over the makeshift sink in the corner, and thanks god that she insisted on having one put in here.

Stiffly pulling his trousers back on, wincing with the discomfort of feeling wet down there, Marcus watches her as she cleans herself.

"I should... er, head to my quarters and um, clean up a little."

"Hmm," she says, unable to stop smiling at him. 

He shoots her a grin, a genuine one that she hasn't seen in such a long time, that she is so overwhelmed she can't help but feel a little emotional. 

He leans over and kisses her briefly, before walking a little awkwardly into the main part of medical, loosely holding his jacket near his crotch to hide any evidence of their love making. 

No one pays him any heed, Abby notices with relief, even as he leaves walking a little more rigidly than normal. 

She snorts a little at the thought of him making his way down the Ark corridors like that. 

It is the first time in awhile she has felt laughter bubbling up inside of her.

It is the first time since being chipped that she has felt hope.


	6. Interruptions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this on my phone, so if there's any mistakes I'm sorry! Will correct in due course! 
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are loved :)

Abby does not know how, in her mind, she should be referring to herself and Marcus - or what state their relationship is. 

It is clear, since the last time they were alone together for his medical check up and things got... heated, that they have definitively crossed a line. It's not a really obvious line, she thinks. They've been toeing it since their meeting before his near execution, and now this gentle introduction into a sexual relationship (of sorts) is certainly on the other side of that line, Abby muses. It's certainly more something more than mere eye contact, brief touches and a few scattered kisses now. It's unavoidable. Undeniable. They'll forever be entwined in each other's sexual histories, even if they don't last, as a significant romantic... something... attachment? 

No, she doesn't know, and isn't sure there's even word for it. 

At the moment, she can't keep her eyes off him from where he sits opposite her at the council table. 

Marcus seems lost in thought, as he listens to Bellamy about optimal guard rotations they should be implementing. 

She likes that look on him - that serene, methodical expression that makes her forget that he has ever felt pain. It soothes her, makes it easier for her to trace the ageing lines in his face and imagine herself kissing the creases in his brow away, if only for a short time.

Her mind drifts as her eyes wander lower, to the open neck of his shirt. It's hot and stuffy in here, and he, like most of the other occupants (herself included) have shed all but the bare necessary layers. From where she sits, she can see a thin sheen of sweat at his neck and chest. She feels as sticky as he looks. Her eyes drift lower, to where the bottom of the v of his t-shirt, where a small smattering of hair is visible, and she's instantly reminded of how his chest hair felt under her fingertips.

The room grows warmer as a blush creeps to her cheeks. She can't help it. She can still feel the fleshy heat of him under her palms. She can't stop herself from remembering the look on his face when he wordlessly came for her on that damn stretcher.

God she wishes they were alone. Or at least sat next to one another. She wonders how he'd react if he felt her hand on his thigh, creeping higher under the cover of the table. She thinks he'd tense, and then try to catch glimpses of her from the corner of his vision. But he'd let her carry on. He'd enjoy it - the thrill of being so close to getting caught out, in a room full of unsuspecting people, as her hand sinks past the band of his trousers and seeks him out. 

But, really, she hasn't a clue, because she still hasn't had time to sort out in her mind exactly what a sexual relationship with Marcus is like. They haven't had more than five minutes to themselves since last time. They've barely spoken about anything other than the running of camp, and this is still what partly makes Abby wary of what's going on between them. She does not know if he likes the risk of being caught (though, after what happened in medical she's inclined to say that, yes, he's exactly like she is when it comes to that - a bit of a thrill seeker), or if he likes it rough, or gentle, or how often, or, or...

There's a whole list of things she wants to know about him. The little she does know excites her, and she's desperate to figure out the rest. That's why, when everyone stands up to leave once the meeting ends, she makes a beeline for him, discretely catching his wrist as he turns to go.

Marcus turns back to her as people start filing out of the room.

"Abby." An affectionate smile adorns his face.

"Marcus... I wonder if I could have a quick word?" Their voices are hushed, drawing the least amount of attention to themselves as possible.

"Course." His smile reminds her of Polis - before the city of light, that is - when he'd picked up a pair of sunglasses and waved them at her with a childish delight. 

"Kane?" Bellamy hovers in the doorway, obviously waiting on the man in question.

"We'll be two minutes, tops," he says, and when the boy does not make a bid to move, adds: "I'll be with you in a sec."

Bellamy nods, his eyes briefly flickering between them as if he suspects what's going on. He's probably right, whatever his thoughts, Abby thinks.

He shuts the door behind him, and they are finally, finally, alone.

"What's up?"

Abby has not thought this far ahead. For a moment she flounders - opens her mouth to speak the emptiness of her head, and then promptly shuts it.

"I er... We never did schedule in your hydrotherapy," she manages, unable to look him in the eye.

"No," he says, "well, I'm free this afternoon if you're not too busy?"

"Oh," she says, "well I... I guess I could ask Jackson to cover this afternoon, but the lake's a few clicks away... We'd need authorisation and at such short notice-" 

"I'll sort it. Don't worry."

"Ok. Great." 

She knows this is the point where she should leave, but neither of them make a move. 

"Abby..."

"Hmm." She looks up at him, and finds his eyes scanning her lips. A hand comes up to her face, fingers trailing across her brow to sweep the loose strands from her ponytail to the side.

"What happened in medical..."

"Hmm?" Is all she can manage, her eyes fluttering closed with his gentle touch.

He leans forward, his lips ghosting across the shell of her ear, his beard tickling her cheek.

"I still have some moonshine left in my room, and I'd very much like to return the favour when we get back from the lake... That is, if you want?" He becomes a little hesitant towards the end, and she rests her hands on his hips, trailing her thumbs under his shirt and across the skin she exposes to reassure him.

"I've thought of nothing else all day." She admits as he nuzzles his nose into her neck.

He chuckles, "God you have no idea how hard it's been sitting across from you when you look like this, all hot and sweaty."

"Oh, I have a fair idea." She teases.

"I love you," he says, suddenly serious as he presses a kiss to her throat, and then pulls away.

He looks at her with such adoration she wonders how she'll ever manage to accept that she deserves it after everything she's done. It makes her uncomfortable, so she looks away.

"You ok?" He murmurs, abruptly unsure of himself - of his declaration of love.

"I just..." She catches his eye, steels herself and then looks him head on, "I struggle to imagine how you can, after... after I did this to you."

She gestures to his lame leg.

"Amongst other things," she adds.

He sighs heavily, resting his hands on his hips as he glances back at the council room door, and then back to her.

"Abby, I don't..." He looks a little desperate for her to understand as he struggles for the right words, "I fell in love with you, months before all of this. Somewhere between the late night chancellor meetings just after mount weather... I... I know that much. And I know that I don't want to stop loving you - well, actually, I don't think I have a choice. Not really. I... I can't stop. Yes, what happened... It hurt, it broke... a part of me. Fuck, as cliched as it sounds it broke my heart, seeing you like that... Knowing you were chipped. But it broke it for very different reason to what, I think, you imagine."

A lump has formed in her throat, but she forces her words out anyway, "and what reason is that?"

"Because I thought I'd lost you," he chokes, barely able to control his emotions, "not because I felt betrayed by you - for attempting to seduce me, for giving the order to put a nail in my leg... For taking the damn chip in the first place. I knew all of that wasn't - couldn't possibly be - you. And so I thought that my Abby was gone, for good, and all because I left her behind. I should have insisted you come, or stayed, or, or... I should have done something, anything, other than leaving, if just to avoid the prospect of not having you in my life anymore as the woman I fell in-"

He does not finish, because Abby's lips crash onto his with a ferociousness neither of them are familiar with. Her hands cup his face with a tightness that startles both of them.

And then his hands are tangled in her hair, gripping her to him as hard as he can.

They stumble with the viscousness of the kiss - Marcus' lower back collides with the table behind him. The dull thud barely registers in their minds as Abby's opened mouthed kisses fill his with the taste of her. 

He greedily takes everything she gives, his tongue just as rough against hers, his teeth just as brutally sinking into her lips as she does his.

"God, Marcus..."

He simply groans in response, tilting her head back further so he can kiss much deeper. 

Almost on autopilot, Abby's hand runs down to the buttons of his jeans, her fingers grazing against him. 

He follows suit, cupping a breast on his way down before slipping into her trousers.

She breaks the kiss with a gasp at the feel of his fingers on her.

"Kane? Shit!"

In their haze, they have completely forgotten about Bellamy Blake patiently waiting on the other side of the door.

The sound of his voice immediately snaps them out of it, and they fly apart from one another - Marcus' hand is yanked out of from Abby's pants by the woman herself, and Marcus stumbles a little as he shoots to his feet from where she had him pressed up against the table.

Luckily, with Abby's back being to the door, Bellamy does not see the worst of it, and stays ignorant to where, exactly, their hands had been straying.

There is no denying what they were up to though. The boy looks away, immediately flustered by the sight.

"Sorry! I didn't... Realise."

"Bellamy!" The colour of Marcus' cheeks match the younger man's almost exactly, and the three of them stand there awkwardly for a moment, all red faced.

"Don't be, it's not..." Abby starts, "we uh... I should go."

Making a hasty exit, leaving the two men in awkward silence, she doesn't think she's ever been more embarrassed in her entire life.

That is, apart from that time Clarke had walked in on her and Jake. She cringes at the memory.

God, how will she ever look Bellamy in the eye again?


	7. Making Waves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So - if you follow me on Tumblr you'll know my hiatus on this fic is because my baby arrived 3 weeks early! 
> 
> Anyway, he's 2 weeks now and I've found time to write this chapter- so enjoy! :)

Abby makes her way down to the nearest lake to Arcadia at what can only be described as a leisurely pace. 

Gripping a spare t shirt and pair of underwear in one hand, she wanders through the well worn path that meanders through the trees. The afternoon sunlight filters down from above, reaching her with a green tint from the leaves fanning out above. She looks up as she walks, basking in the feeling of heat on her cheeks.

It's been awhile since she took some time out to herself like this. Medical is always busy these days - if not full with the freshly wounded from some catastrophe or other, it's filled up with follow up appointments from such life and death situations. At least, back on the Ark there were other doctors - shift rotations and scheduled breaks. Though, she thinks, as she gazes around at the lush greenery of Earth, even though she does miss some aspects of her old life in space, she wouldn't trade this for the world.

A thought enters her head, but she quickly dismisses it. It's a stupid idea. 

Yet, the further she walks, with this heat beating down on her, making her feet feel sweaty against her socks, the more tempted she is.

Stopping on the path, she hastily pulls off her shoes and socks, tucks her socks into her shoes, and carries on walking- barefoot.

My God, she thinks, feeling dew damp soil and grass press between her toes, this feels amazing. 

The lake is a good twenty minutes or so by foot from Arcadia. Before they managed to set up a good irrigation system and fresh supply of water to the camp, this lake had been their sole source of fresh water. It had been used for washing, bathing, and (once they'd gotten the water filter set up) drinking water.

Now it sits largely abandoned. Besides the well worn path that stretches out from Arcadia's front gates to the pebbly side bank of this lake, there are no traces of it having ever been used by anything other than the odd animal that stumbles across it.

Abby likes it like this. It's serene and out of the way - it makes her feel like she's fallen into another world altogether, one that's separate from the Ark, from Arcadia, from Grounders and anything else she could possibly think of. Time seems to stand still here, and that's fine by her. She loves the way it seemingly strips her down to the bare bones of existence by forcing her to live in the moment, in this tiny little pocket hidden in the creases of reality. 

As she steps out from the tree line and makes her way down the embankment, she almost regrets that she will not be alone much longer. The illusion of time is fragile here, and another presence could easily upset it - the breaking of silence by voices, however hushed, is just one of the ways Abby thinks this moment might end.

Coming to sit at the edge of the water, where the pebbles of the bank become smaller, rounder, until they disappear under a lip of water, she slowly eases in both her feet - but only up to the balls of each one, immersing her toes fully. It's pretty cold, but in this heat it feels like a welcome relief. She imagines sinking into its cold depths all the way up to her neck, washing away the warm, sticky sweat that's collected under her arms during her hike. She shivers with delight, itching to get in.

Glancing around to make sure Marcus hasn't yet arrived, she slips her t shirt off, over her head, does away with her bra, and pulls on the baggier, spare one she carried up with her. She then stands, takes off her trousers, and then sits back down in just her tight fitting boxer shorts. 

Swimwear isn't something they ever really had - or needed - back on the Ark. The closest you got to swimming was a shallow, lukewarm bath if you were lucky. So Abby's impromptu swimming gear is something she's quite proud of - even the Grounders resort to skinny dipping or going in their underclothes - as it seems decent enough. She's not sure how she'll change back when Marcus is here, but she's sure she'll figure something out.

At that moment she becomes aware that she's no longer alone. The bubble around the area bursts with the gentle sound of boots on grass and fallen leaves. She turns to where Marcus emerges from the trees, hugging her knees to her and smiling - unbeknownst to her - affectionately, as he stops at the sight of her.

If she weren't so far away, and her eyesight getting worse with age, Abby would be tempted to say he blushes slightly at the image of her lounging by the lakeside, her clothes (most visibly her bra) discarded to her right. As it is, she can only wonder at exactly what it is that makes him hesitate, before making his way down to her.

"Hey," he says lightly, halting when he draws level with her, her clothes between them, and then slowly lets himself down onto the ground. He looks around him with a sense of peaceful wonder, until his eyes fall back onto her.

"Hey," she copies, grinning slightly with the absurdity of it all. 

Marcus' head dips down in embarrassment, she notes, as he looks back out across the expanse of water. 

It's then that she realises his distinct lack of spare clothing.

"Didn't you bring an extra change of clothes, Marcus?"

He glances back at her, confused as to why she's asking.

"Yeah," he says, pulling out something from his trouser pocket and holding it up.

It's only a pair of pants, she realises, and blushes with the thought.

"I said to bring a t shirt as well," she mumbles.

"Oh." He looks at the boxers in his hand. "Oh well."

He chucks them to where her clothes lie, and then starts to undo the laces of his boots. Abby sits in silence as he slowly undresses himself. Out the corner of her eye she can see him sitting just in his boxers in the humid air. She steals a glance, and even though she's seen him in this state of undress before, this time it's different. His body is relaxed - the muscles beneath the skin are defined but lax. 

This time she can take him all in - the slight tan to his skin that must be from genetics rather than exposure to the sun, the way his body is covered in a dark smattering of hair in all the right places, the leanness of his frame. She feels desire stir within her again, but this time she doesn't feel ashamed. Regardless, she bats it down because they're here for a reason.

For a brief moment they are both quiet, and then she breaks the silence with: "so, let's try this hydrotherapy out."

Standing, she wades into the water without so much as a backwards glance at him, until the water is right up to the top of her hips. 

Neither of them speak again until he is standing next to her.

"So..." He starts, "what do I do?"

"Well, it's just sort of to do with you walking around. The slight relief from gravity should help you to improve your limp and stop your posture getting worse because of it. Then we can try some resistance training, using the resistance of the water to build up the damaged muscles again. I never did any kind of therapy on the Ark, so I'm just as new to this as you are. I'm just trying to remember what I read when I was studying for my finals..."

"Okay..." He says, looking a little lost, and then begins to wade around. He winces each time he pulls his damaged leg forwards to take a step.

"I think we need to go deeper in," Abby says, gently taking his hand and steadily leading him further into the chilled water, until they are up to their necks. 

Each new step Marcus takes appears to be easier, until he is walking under the water almost as if his leg doesn't hinder him.

He's grinning at her as he gently makes his way around the deeper ends, the water calmly lapping at the ends of his beard and hair.

Their hands are still grasping onto one another, tethering them together as if they are both afraid they might drift apart, or the other might suddenly go under. Neither of them have learnt to swim growing up on the Ark, so even though Abby likes to think the tight hold they have on each other is maybe to do with something else, she knows it is because they are both a little wary about being so deep in water.

She smiles back at Marcus as he looks at her with a deep, unyielding glee - as if he finally has hope that his leg might get better again.

He laughs, an action that creases up the corners of his eyes, and Abby feels a rush of unparalleled affection for the man.

His expression turns serious as their eyes meet, and the hand that holds hers starts to pull her in, much closer to him, until his arm is almost fully extended behind him, and hers is grazing against his back. Carefully, he loosens his fingers, pulling his hand from her grasp and encouraging her to stand flush against him.

She can't stop staring at his dark brown eyes as she feels his arms wrap around her, his fingers trailing across her shoulders and spine. Lifting a drenched hand out from under the water, she runs it over his beard, her thumb stroking the soft bristles as the other tracks a path up from the base of his spine, until it rests in the centre of his back.

"What happened after I left? With Bellamy?" 

Marcus chuckles, pushing strands of hair out of her face as he studies each inch of it.

"He didn't want to know," he responds.

"Really?"

"Well, more specifically, he had a small go at me for putting off work in favour of more... Frivolous things."

"Frivolous, huh?"

"Well, that's not the word I'd use."

"What would you use?"

"Desirable," he says, without missing a beat.

She laughs.

"Okay, so was that it?"

"Er, he did say we should find more private places for such moments," he pauses, "but that he was happy we are... Well, after everything."

"Hmm," she agrees, tracing his lower lip with her thumb. She desperately wants to kiss it.

"Speaking of private places..." He grins at her, glances over his shoulder, and then leans in further, "I believe there's no danger of someone walking in on us here."

"Hmm," she hums, noncommittally but with a smirk of her own. Her fingers stray into the soaked ends of his hair, twirling the loose curls around her fingers, "if only we had an excuse to come out here on a regular basis, like... Oh, I don't know... The excuse of hydrotherapy appointments."

"Ha." He takes her face in his hands and kisses her, open mouthed and slow.

She's pretty sure her eyes roll back into her head as his tongue slides against the roof of her mouth. She moans as he closes the kiss by sucking her upper lip slightly, and all she can hear is the sound of their wet lips breaking and making kisses as they cling together.

Abby pulls away suddenly, panting slightly, and takes a step back.

Marcus looks a little alarmed, unsure as to whether he's crossed a line, but his fears are immediately allayed when Abby pulls her shirt straight over her head, and throws it at the shoreline. It lands with a significantly wet thud about 3 foot from the bank.

Lost in the moment, he cannot mask where his gaze lingers as he takes in her naked torso.

"Marcus?"

"I... I..." He is completely lost for words, instead his eyes roam hungrily over the sight of her bare breasts.

She takes a step towards him, running her hands up his forearms and pulling him back against her. She swears he visibly shivers as her nipples graze the skin of his chest.

"Abby..." He breathes as she presses kisses to his collarbone and works her way up to his neck.

He shocks her by grabbing the backs of her thighs and hiking her up onto his hips, forcing her to wrap her arms and legs around him. 

And then his mouth is on her right breast as he palms the other. It's something Abby will quickly learn about Marcus over the coming months - that breasts are a particular weakness of his, especially when it comes to hers. 

His caresses are just as careful and languid as his kisses, as if he's savouring each piece of flesh that he touches. Marcus is a soft lover, she muses - thorough, precise, romantic. It is different to what she has experienced before, with Jake - he was more direct, a significant force. Their liaisons - especially in their younger years, before Clarke's birth - were adventurous and all consuming. Bedroom desks were made slightly wobbly on their legs for the rest of their lives, simply because passion took their fancy. Posters were inadvertently ripped off the walls with the force of their bodies against them. The slats under the bed were broken in a couple of places because they had a habit of of falling heavily onto it. Abby distinctly remembers her 19 year old self strategically placing boxes under her bed to hold it up fully, and stop her parents growing suspicious.

Here, with Marcus, it is much more subdued. It is a little more risqué, perhaps, than her times with Jake, with them being so exposed outside and running the risk of anyone stumbling across them (something that is becoming a bit of habit for them, she thinks, though the thrill of getting caught only fuels her desire more). But it is far slower. It is more of an event than an action. Every motion is thoughtful rather than impulsive. Both men have very different styles. She loves the dichotomy. It helps separate the two halves of her life better, having lovers with contrasting ways.

She loves the uncontrollable and frantic love making she shared with Jake. It will always be her first - and longest - experience of a physical relationship. Yet she loves this new, leisurely kind of passion she shares with Marcus. 

Perhaps it's their age, or perhaps more accurately experience, that makes it so different between her and Marcus. Whatever it is, she doesn't want it to stop. She wants to bury her fingers into his hair and take her time to just enjoy them, whatever they are, and then start it all over again. 

Abby's eyes fly open when Marcus starts to stumble, with her still clung in his arms and her limbs wrapped around him, towards the shoreline. For a moment she stops her ministrations, but as Marcus continues his around her neck, she encourages him to tip his head back and kisses him with as much force as she can manage. He answers with his rough tongue on hers and a deep, rumbling moan that vibrates through his chest and into hers.

Eventually, as they emerge from the water, gravity starts to pull down on his bad knee, and he staggers heavily. 

And then he falls to his knees, still gripping her in his arms, and breaks away with a wince.

"Marcus? God, are you okay?" She says, abruptly dropping her legs from his waist and sitting in front of him in the water. 

Pushing the damp ends of his hair from his face to look at him, she expects him to respond, but instead he pulls her forward again - this time a little more desperate - for another opened mouthed kiss.

And then he's laying her down in the shallow water, his hands skimming over every inch of her bare skin. 

Abby stutters out a gasp as his teeth as beard drag against her throat, and she clutches the back of his head harder, forcing him closer, making his kisses a little more vehement.

His hips jerk involuntarily between her legs, shocking them both.

"Ah!" Marcus yanks himself back with a low hiss, and hangs his head as he pinched his eyes closed.

"Marcus?"

"I'm fine."

"You're not."

He lets out a growl in frustration, rolls off of her and stares up at the sky.

They are both quiet.

"This damn knee..." He mutters, running a hand over his face in exasperation.

Leaning up into an elbow, Abby drapes a hand onto his bare chest, and plays with the soft hair she finds there.

"What was it? Carrying me or..."

"Being on all fours," he admits, dropping his hand away from his face and finally looking at her, resigned.

"You know," she blushes slightly with the thought of what she is about to say, "you don't have to be the one on top." 

He laughs, and then places a hand on the side of her face, stroking a thumb across her cheek. His expression turns from amusement to affection, "hmm. That sounds like an idea. But not here."

"Hmm. Not here." She agrees - as romantic as it seems, she can already feel herself getting a chill, despite the heat.

"Still fancy that moonshine tonight?" He teases.

Grinning back him, she slips a leg over him and straddles his hips. Pressing a chaste kiss to his lips, she says:

"It's a date."


End file.
